The Disowned — Volume 03Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
General
The Disowned — Volume 03
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century
As Warner uttered these words his eyes reeled; the room swam before
him; the excitement of his feeble frame had reached its highest pitch;
the disease of many weeks had attained its crisis; and, tottering back
a few paces, he fell upon the floor, the victim of a delirious and
raging fever.
But it was not thus that the young artist was to die. He was reserved
for a death that, like his real nature, had in it more of gentleness
and poetry. He recovered by slow degrees, and his mind, almost in
spite of himself, returned to that profession from which it was
impossible to divert the thoughts and musings of many years. Not that
he resumed the pencil and the easel: on the contrary, he could not
endure them in his sight; they appeared, to a mind festered and sore,
like a memorial and monument of shame. But he nursed within him a
strong and ardent desire to become a pilgrim to that beautiful land of
which he had so often dreamed, and which the innocent destroyer of his
peace had pointed out as the theatre of inspiration and the nursery of
future fame.
The physicians who, at Talbot's instigation, attended him, looked at
his hectic cheek and consumptive frame, and readily flattered his
desire; and Talbot, no less interested in Warner's behalf on his own
account than bound by his promise to Clarence, generously extended to
the artist that bounty which is the most precious prerogative of the
rich. Notwithstanding her extreme age, his grandmother insisted upon
attending him: there is in the heart of woman so deep a well of love
that no age can freeze it. They made the voyage: they reached the
shore of the myrtle and the vine, and entered the Imperial City. The
air of Rome seemed at first to operate favourably upon the health of
the English artist. His strength appeared to increase, his spirit to
expand; and though he had relapsed into more than his original silence
and reserve, he resumed, with apparent energy, the labours of the
easel: so that they who looked no deeper than the surface might have
imagined the scar healed, and the real foundation of future excellence
begun.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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